


Exit Wounds

by holograms



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Season 2, chillywilly, matching tummy scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And here you are now, waking up buried under a pile of dogs. This thing with Will has become days that have turned into weeks that have now turned into months.</p><p>You aren't going anywhere soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely [Casey's](http://willskissograham.tumblr.com) birthday <3

When you were shot in the face, you were the Chesapeake Ripper.

Of course, you knew that you weren’t the serial killer who they were after — your self-awareness is quite well developed, and you’ve analyzed enough serial killers to not make rookie mistakes such as ones that you were blamed for, if you do say so yourself.

When you wake up in a hospital weeks later after the swelling in your head has gone down, you are no longer the Chesapeake Ripper.

If it again took surviving a traumatic near-death incident and a doctor telling you, “You’re lucky to be alive,” to be free of the charges, then so be it.

 

You’re told the why of you no longer being thought of as the Ripper, and it rattles you to your core. When you’re told by the two FBI lab geeks whose names you can’t recall but do clearly remember them stripping you down when you were processed into custody, “Hannibal Lecter is now the prime suspect as the Chesapeake Ripper,” your thought is, _fucking finally!_ , quickly followed by, “Is Will Graham alive?” because you would think that he would be the one here to tell you this news. Hannibal is Will’s…project, as Will is Hannibal’s.

You don’t realize that you had spoken the second thought out loud until the one with the crazed hair smiles meekly at you and says, “Yes, Will’s alright.”

“For the most part,” the other one adds, and the younger one elbows him in the side.

A nurse ushers them out for being too disruptive before you can ask what _for the most part_ means.

Unsatisfied, you look up the story on Tattle Crime (you can’t help but indulge yourself in reading Lounds’ blog) and the headline, bolded and in crimson font — _MASSACRE AT_   _THE REAL CHESAPEAKE RIPPER HOME_ — causes you to set your tea down on something steady before you spill it.

Jack Crawford and Abigail Hobbs were found dead at Hannibal Lecter’s house, and Alana Bloom and Will Graham were left critically injured, while Hannibal himself is nowhere to be found. Freddie Lounds is sure to point out FBI incompetency in the article. You agree with her.

You close your MacBook and fall asleep fast, and dream of an exquisite dinner that tastes like blood in your mouth, and of the feeling of blood dripping down the back of your neck.

 

A few days later, when you you’re able to transfer to a wheelchair, you are glad for the freedom. Being restrained to bed rest makes your chest heavy with anxiety — it reminds you too much of being trapped while you got your innards ripped out.

You glance in the mirror and you’re seeing yourself for the first time since the incident: dark circles line your eyes, your facial hair has grown unruly from being shaved awkwardly by other people when you were in a coma, and a bandage still covers where you were shot.

You decide you’ve fared worse. You even manage to give yourself a grin in the mirror before your face settles back into an indignant scowl.

Your hands don’t work exactly like they used to, sometimes they tremor and can’t hold on as well. So it’s kind of hard to roll your wheelchair down the hallway in the hospital, but you pursue, because you have to see him.

Will is sleeping when you go into his room, and you watch him sleep until an alarm in the hallway wakes him. You watch him yawn, blink his eyes slowly and let out a small sigh, as if he just once again remembered why he is here in the hospital. He must feel your presence, because he turns his head which rustles against the stiff hospital sheets. When he sees you there, he doesn’t even look surprised.

Which is news to you, because you aren’t entirely sure why you are here.

After awhile, he says in that steady voice of his, “I suppose we should have run.” You don’t know what to say, you can’t tell if he’s being serious or not because of the flat affect that he speaks it with. But then Will laughs to himself and says, “No, the hunt was too good.”

You’re prone to agree with him.

 

When you are able to remove your bandages and are seen fit to be released from the hospital, you return to your home, even though the FBI confiscated most of your belongings.

It only takes one sleepless night to realize that you can no longer stay in your house. Things there haunt you — you can still see a blood trail on the floor even though it had been scrubbed clean, and when you go downstairs you keep envisioning a corpse clashing against the décor.

The next morning, you make a phone call; it’s automatic, and your fingers dial the number on their own accord. Your heart beat quickens with every ring that the call goes unanswered, and you suddenly feel extremely silly for being so.

“Dr. Chilton,” Will simply says when he answers the phone. You let a breath go that you didn’t realize you had been holding.

The next thing you know, you’re hurriedly packing the meager amount of items you have left that are important to you. Two suitcases are your entire life, now.

When Will arrives, he helps you put your bags into the trunk, but when you notice him wince in pain and contract his stomach, you rush and take the suitcases from him and finish shoving them inside the car. Will gives a nod of thanks.

The beginning of the ride to Wolf Trap, Virginia is silent — anxiety eats away at your chest and you figure Will can feel that, empathize with it, because he’s got his brows furrowed and is tensed up at the shoulders and has a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he drives.

It’s the dog that Will had brought with him that breaks the silence with a shrill bark.

Will shushes him, and reaches to the back seat to pet the dog. The action quiets the dog, and you find yourself being calmed as well.

“Thanks,” you say when you find the right timing. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He cuts you off, short and direct. He glances over to you. “Us who have been gutted by serial killers have to stick together.”

“If there’s one more we can officially become a club,” you respond, and that causes Will to laugh, and he ducks his head down slightly as if he is trying to hide his smile. Seeing that expression from him makes your chest feel lighter, and by causing Will Graham to laugh you feel like you accomplished something astounding. You relax into your seat, deciding that you want to continue making Will light up in that way.

A minute or so later, Will asks, “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure,” you say, and then add, “Anything but classical.”

Will nods and fiddles with the radio, and you both know that you’re thinking the same thing: _Hannibal-fuckin’-Lecter_.

 

And here you are now, waking up buried under a pile of dogs.

The days at Will’s house turn into weeks, which turn into months. You grow your hair long, partly to cover the exit wound on the back of your neck, and also because you can’t be bothered to care otherwise.

However, not much can be done about the scar left hugging your cheek. You touch the scar with your hand, letting the tips of your fingers run over the edges of the ridges left by the bullet. It has become a compulsive action that you do when you’re worried. It grounds you, reminding you what you’ve been through.

You glance at the clock — 3:53 AM — and you sigh, and command the dogs, “Move!”, and most of them listen, bounding off the bed, and you only have to shove the Italian greyhound — a relatively new addition — aside. Detangling yourself from the sheets, you place your feet on the floor and begin your unsteady walk into the living room.

As you had thought, Will is sitting at the desk, leaning forward underneath lamp light. You shiver, because it’s cold and you’re only wearing your boxer briefs, and you wrap your arms around yourself as you shuffle towards Will.

“I woke up alone,” you say, and run a hand through his curly hair.

Will makes a non-committal grunt and shies away from your touch. “The dogs were there."

“Yes, but I want you,” you say, and you sit on the arm of the chair and wrap your arm around him. After a moment Will leans into your embrace and rests his head on your chest.

The relationship between the two of you developed easily. One night of too much whiskey, he kissed you and dragged you into his unmade bed where you fucked frantically and intensely, and you’ve shared his bed ever since.

It’s best thing to come out of this whole goddamned mess.

It’s been difficult for Will to leave well enough alone, and he obsesses over finding Hannibal. You yourself couldn’t care less about where the psychopathic cannibalistic pretentious asshole escaped to, but it’s important to Will, so you act like it’s important to you.

“C’mon,” you beg, “Leave it for tomorrow.” You turn his head so he’s facing you, and he glances up at you and looks you in the eyes. You place your hands on either side of his face and lean forward and kiss him on the forehead where the brows turn in. You feel how he relaxes into your presence, him fading away from the demons that chase him. He lifts his head and catches his mouth with yours and he kisses you harshly, his hand grasping the back of your neck to pull you closer to him. You gasp into his mouth at the sudden pressure, and he takes that opportunity to kiss you deeper, and you feel a familiar tightening in your stomach as he kisses exactly in the way you like to be kissed — you’ve had lots of time to explore each other.

“Okay,” he whispers on your lips, and then you take his hand in yours and lead him back to the bed and you both crawl underneath the covers. 

He places his hand on your stomach, letting it trail your scar before reaching down to the waist line of your briefs and slipping his hand inside and wrapping his hand around your hard cock.

“Please,” you whine, and it doesn’t take much encouragement for him to give you what you want; in a quick movement he straddles your hips, the blankets falling from his shoulders as he grabs your underwear and shoves them down your thighs. He bucks his hips, and you can feel his stiffened cock rub against yours through the fabric of his briefs and it’s all you can do to stifle moans that come from the back of your throat.

“You need to be wearing less clothes,” you breathe out, tugging at the hem of Will’s t-shirt. He obliges, and pulls the shirt over his head and throws it to the floor, and your hands are free to rub his chest and stomach. Your fingers brush over where there’s still dark red scars that line his middle, one so similar to yours, and you catch his gaze for a moment.

He leans forward and pulls you into another kiss, this time more gentle but with still with the same amount of passion. You take this chance to pull his underwear down off of his hips, him helping out and shoving them off the rest of the way, and when he gets them around his foot he kicks them off.

He places his hands on your hips as he moves down, his beard teasing your thighs before he takes your cock into his mouth. As he begins to move his head up and down, his tongue running along the underside, you think to yourself, _if it took getting shot in the face to come to this, then I’m perfectly fine with that._

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing around with second person so sorry if I messed it up somehow. Feedback is always appreciated, thanks for reading!


End file.
